


All the Mornings Left to Give

by DesireeArmfeldt



Category: due South
Genre: Angst, Bananas, Breakfast, Happy Ending, M/M, POV Third Person Limited, Relationship Negotiation, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-01
Updated: 2012-10-01
Packaged: 2017-11-15 09:49:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/525963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DesireeArmfeldt/pseuds/DesireeArmfeldt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fraser never spends the night, and it's breaking Ray's heart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All the Mornings Left to Give

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this story somewhere around February 2012, after I had written only a handful of other fics, and have now been editing the darned thing on and off for about 8 months. It was very stubborn about rejecting all attempts at an ending. I'm not sure which of us ultimately won the battle, but enough is enough and I'm declaring it finished. 
> 
> Thanks to luzula for beta!

Ray is dizzy with ecstasy, buried in Fraser’s hot, welcoming body, Fraser’s legs over his shoulders, Fraser’s steadying hands on his hips.  He doesn’t know how long he’s been here—a long time, not nearly long enough, forever wouldn’t be long enough.  Nerves are singing all over his body, his head is buzzing, his heart is pounding, _yes, yes, yes_.  He’s flying high, and there’s going to be a fall, he knows, but he’s not thinking about that right now; right now is all about the heat slick sliding shaking holding touching Fraser Fraser Fraser. . .

 

Fraser’s eyes are closed.  His breath is coming hard and fast and every time Ray pushes into him, Fraser lets out a stifled moan—it’s the loudest he ever gets, and it’s not very loud but it wrings Ray’s heart every damn time.  Ray’s shaking like a motherfucker and he feels like just throwing back his head and howling at the moon, but he forces his eyes to stay open, keeps them fixed on Fraser’s face, because he can tell Fraser’s real close to the edge, and he doesn’t want to miss the look on Fraser’s face when he comes.  He shifts his weight so he can get one hand free, and strokes Fraser’s cock just very gently, and—yes!—there Fraser goes, with a sound that’s a cross between a sigh and a whimper, and his eyes still closed, and the sweetest fucking smile.

 

That smile is maybe the most beautiful thing Ray’s seen in his life.  It makes him want to cry.

 

But he’s close, himself, now—too close to think, to breathe—so he lets the tidal wave suck him under, his eyes locked on Fraser’s face.  Fraser smiles again when he feels Ray jerk inside him, but his eyes stay shut.  Fraser always keeps his eyes shut.

 

Ray cries out his release, and he slides between Fraser’s legs as Fraser’s arms pull him down into a crushing embrace.  Ray lets his body melt onto Fraser’s.  He lets Fraser’s breathing rock him gently up and down, like he’s a rowboat on some calm little lake somewhere out in the country.  He’d like to just fall asleep this way and sleep forever in Fraser’s arms.

 

But when the sweat on Ray’s back has cooled, Fraser gently rolls over, lays Ray down on the sheets, and climbs out of bed.  He gets rid of the condom, then goes into the bathroom for a damp washcloth, which he uses to wipe down first Ray, then himself.  Then he picks up his clothes from the floor where Ray slung them earlier.  He dresses, not hurrying, but efficient, the way Fraser does most things.

 

Ray’s stomach knots as he watches Fraser button up his shirt, so calm and precise, like nothing just happened here.  He stares at the back of Fraser’s head, trying for some psychic communication, willing him to turn around, change his mind, smile at Ray, touch him, _something_ , for Christ’s sake.  But he doesn’t; never does.  Not until he’s all the way dressed, and then he does turn, but the smile is his friendly, daytime one.

 

“Thank you, Ray.  I’ll let myself out.  It’s getting late, and I know you have to get up in the morning.”

 

Which is in no way a surprise, but that doesn’t make it hurt any less.  Ray’s woozy and shaking with adrenaline, because this is it, he’s got to do it now, before Fraser gets his hand on the doorknob.  He’s scared to death, because he knows this is not going to end well, except that anything is better than Fraser walking out that fucking door in the middle of the night _again_.  He wants to put his fist through the wall.  It wouldn’t help, but it would hurt less than what he’s about to do to himself.

 

But he’s got to give it his best try, so:

 

“Listen, why don’t you spend the night?”

 

And Fraser’s smile dissolves into a bland expression, right on cue.  Ray’s guts clench.

 

“I appreciate the offer, but I think I had better return to the Consulate.  Inspector Thatcher needs me on hand early tomorrow, and Diefenbaker will be expecting a run beside the lake before the work day starts.”

 

“Fraser, that’s bullshit.  I know it, you know it, so why are you even bothering?”

 

“I beg your pardon?”

 

“The reason you’re not gonna stay is because you don’t want to stay, end of story.  You don’t need to give me some stupid excuse you don’t even expect me to believe.  Just, Fraser, just once, would you be straight with me?”

 

“I always endeavor to be honest with you, Ray—“

 

“Shut up.  You know what I’m trying to say.  Look, just level with me, okay? You’re never gonna stay the night, are you?”

 

Fraser looks at him for a long, long time.  Ray forces himself to sit still and wait him out, because Fraser doesn’t look happy, but at least he’s not burying Ray in meaningless, evasive words, plus there’s emotion showing through the polite-face again.  That little crease between the eyebrows and the tongue pushing against the lower lip, those mean that Fraser’s upset, and more, that Fraser’s willing to let Ray see that he’s upset.  And it’s not that he wants to see Fraser hurt (mostly).  But some sign that Fraser has feelings of any kind about him, yeah, he wants that pretty fucking desperately.  And if Fraser’s willing to let Ray see pain on his face, instead of going all prim and cold and take-no-prisoners argumentative, then just maybe there’s some hope for Ray, here.

 

But what Fraser finally says is, “I’m sorry.”

 

He means it, Fraser always means it, but it ain’t enough.  Not by a long shot.

 

“Then why are you doing this?”

 

“I. . .I suppose I felt—I hoped—that what we can offer each other is better than—“

 

“Nothing?  Better than nothing?  Is that what this is?”

  
Fraser shuts his mouth.

 

“Yeah.  I get it.”

 

Fraser looks like he’s about to say something, but Ray cuts him off.  “If you say you’re sorry, I swear I’ll deck you.”

 

Fraser’s smart enough not to reply with _Understood_ or _I’d rather you didn’t_ (and they’re long past _What does that mean, you’ll punch me?_ ).  He just bows his head and says nothing.

 

Ray scrubs his hands over his face, feeling about eighty years old.

 

“Look, I don’t want to fight, I just—I can’t do this any more, you know?  I know this ain’t easy for you.  And I’ve tried, honest to God I’ve tried to be patient and not push you and let you set your own speed, but. . .  I can’t—it’s just—this is killing me, okay, Fraser?  So, if you can’t—if you don’t—“

 

“I care for you,” says Fraser softly.

 

“Yeah, but you take care of strangers off the street, too.”

 

“That’s not what I meant.  You know that.”

 

“Yeah?  Maybe I don’t know that.  Maybe I don’t know the first thing about how you feel about me, you ever think of that?”

  
Fraser shakes his head.

 

“I do care for you,” he says.  “You—your company—all this—makes me happy.”

 

“So happy you can’t wait to get out of my sight, huh?”

 

Fraser turns his face away, putting his hand over his eyes.

 

Ray’s shivering; he feels cold, inside and out, even though he’s sweating, too.

 

“Fraser?  Do you—fuck—“  He takes a breath and tries again.  “Do you love me?”

 

A long silence.  Way too long.

 

“Ray,” Fraser says at last, his hand still covering his eyes.  “I wish I could give you all you deserve.”

 

Ray doesn’t say, _Why don’t you do it, then?_ or _What’s wrong with you?_ or _What’s wrong with me?_ or _Fuck you._   He breathes until he can say, in a pretty steady voice, “Look, if there’s some way to make this work, I’m willing, just say the word.  But if this is all it’s ever gonna be, then. . .no thanks, okay?”

 

Fraser turns, so slow, to look at him.  He looks for a long time, and Ray stares back, memorizing every detail of Fraser’s face.

 

“I _am_ sorry,” Fraser murmurs, and Ray is not even a little bit surprised.  Fraser walks out of the bedroom, and a couple of seconds later the apartment door thumps softly behind him.

 

Ray curls up around his pillow and lets the tears shake him apart until he’s too exhausted to do anything but fall asleep.

 

 

                        *                                                *                                                *

 

 

Ray wakes up to the sun in his eyes ( _forgot to pull the damned shades again_ ) and the smell of coffee and something cooking ( _what the fuck?_ ).  Knuckling his aching eyes, he clambers out of bed ( _stained sheets, smell of Fraser, no, don’t think about that right now_ ).  He picks briefs and jeans up off the floor, wrestles them on.  Thinks about grabbing his holster, but even in the fucking craziness that is Ray’s life these days, burglars don’t stop to fix coffee.  Or if they do, they’re probably the kind of burglars that you don’t need a gun for, you just need to channel your inner Fraser and have a nice chat with them about their grandparents or something.

 

He walks out of the bedroom and realizes that, of course, the most likely person in the world to break into his home for the purpose of making coffee is Fraser himself.  Who is currently standing over Ray’s stove stirring a pot of who-knows-what.

 

Ray only gets a second of standing there blinking at Fraser’s back before Fraser turns around to look back at him.  He’s wearing the same jeans and sweater as he was when Ray last saw him.  And Ray can’t see detail real good without his glasses and with his eyes still sleep-gummy, but there’s a shadow across Fraser’s jaw that sure looks like stubble.  Which is something Ray hasn’t seen since their adventure in the Territories: Fraser, less than clean shaven, in the morning.

 

They stand there looking at each other until Fraser says, “I made you breakfast.  Come and sit down?”

 

And that question mark on the end of that last sentence is kind of unusual, too, because while Fraser’s polite, he’s normally much more about telling Ray what to do than asking him for permission.  And, okay, this is Ray’s kitchen and Fraser doesn’t even have Ray’s permission to be here right now, but. . .  Whatever, it’s too early and Ray’s too tired and wrung-out to think about it, so he walks around the living room side of the kitchen counter and plunks himself onto a stool.

 

From the kitchen side of the counter, Fraser sets a cup of coffee in front of him, then a bowl of oatmeal and a banana.  He arranges this all very carefully, along with a napkin and a spoon, as though the precise distances and angles between all the items are terribly important.  And then he stands there looking at Ray intently with his tongue playing nervously over his bottom lip. 

 

“Fraser?”

 

Fraser startles, then says, quietly, “Yes, Ray?”

 

“What are you doing here?”

 

“Cooking oatmeal.  And making coffee.  Well, technically, I’ve finished doing both of those things, and now I’m talking to you.”

 

Ray scowls at Fraser.

 

“Stop that.  It’s not funny.”

 

“I’m sorry,” Fraser says, his voice low, his eyes on the wooden spoon he’s clutching in both hands.

 

“Fraser.”

 

“Yes?”

 

“Are you telling me you broke into my apartment to make me breakfast?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Don’t take this wrong, but does that sound kind of creepy to you?”

 

“Well, yes, I suppose it could.  Does it disturb you?”

 

“Nah, I just thought, you know, it might disturb a normal person.”  Ray takes a swallow of the coffee, which is just as sweet as he likes it.  “Just another sign that I’m kind of fucked up in the head, I guess.”

 

“If I may offer an alternative explanation. . . ?”

 

“Sure, Fraser, knock yourself out.”

 

“I hope that the reason you are not upset by my intrusion is because you trust me enough to know I would never intentionally harm you.”

 

Which is true, of course.  And Fraser knows damn well it is.  Except. . .Fraser sounds just like he always does when he’s explaining something to Ray that he thinks ought to have been obvious all along.  But when Ray looks over at him, Fraser’s eyes flick up from his hands to meet Ray’s eyes, and that’s not conviction Ray’s seeing, that’s fear _._

 

Fraser’s afraid Ray doesn’t trust him?  Well, okay, not unreasonable after what Ray said last night.  And that _intentional_ was pretty fucking intentional, too, like Fraser’s admitting he’s hurt Ray plenty, but not on purpose.  Which Ray never thought it was: whatever else he feels or doesn’t feel, Ray’s never doubted that Fraser’s his _friend_.  Ray’s done nothing but trust Fraser since day one.  If anything, Fraser’s the one who doesn’t trust Ray enough to spend the night in his bed—And hold on a sec, is _that_ Fraser’s problem?  He doesn’t _trust_ Ray?

 

Meanwhile, Fraser’s still looking at him with those anxious eyes, which are starting to look sad, now, too.  Ray really needs to try to put some of these thoughts into words; he should let Fraser know what he’s thinking or at least that he doesn’t hate Fraser’s guts, because maybe Fraser’s thinking he does.

 

But what comes out of his mouth is, “I don’t even like bananas.  You know that.”

 

Fraser freezes like someone pressed the Pause button.  His mouth is half-open and his face looks like he just took a knee to the nuts: surprised, bewildered, and oh yeah, here comes the hurts-like-hell part.

 

Ray scrambles to correct himself.  “Sorry, I didn’t mean—it’s okay, honestly.  I mean, I’m—I’m glad you’re here.”  Which maybe he shouldn’t be, but hell, it’s the truth.  “And I appreciate the—what you’re doing—not that I really understand why you’re doing _this_ , I mean, specifically. . .”

 

Fraser shakes his head a little and takes a breath.

 

“No, you’re right.  I wasn’t thinking.  Well, obviously, I was thinking, but not about, ah, the practicalities of the gesture.  The banana was important for symbolic reasons.  You needn’t feel obliged to eat it.”

 

“Symbolic.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“You’re telling me this is a symbolic banana.”

 

“Yes, Ray.”

 

“Fraser.”  Ray clutches the banana in his fist and points it at Fraser.  “You’re gonna have to tell me what the banana symbolizes.  ‘Cause the only thing that jumps to my mind is, you know, the obvious.  Which, if you’re trying to ask me for a blowjob—“

 

“Not at all,” Fraser interrupts, looking horrified. 

 

“I didn’t think so,” Ray says.  He looks up into Fraser’s eyes, and Fraser doesn’t look away.  “So, what are you trying to tell me?”

 

“Ray, I—I owe you an apology.”  Fraser holds up his hand to keep Ray from saying anything.  He comes around the counter to stand beside Ray's stool.  “I came to tell you something, but I realize now that by doing it this way, I was, well, cheating.  I hoped that you would understand what I was trying to tell you without my having to actually put it into words.”

 

And doesn’t that make Ray feel useless? 

 

“I wish I could,” he says, staring at the bowl of oatmeal because it’s easier than looking at Fraser.  “But I’m dumb, you know that.  You’ve got to spell stuff out for me.”

 

Fraser drops to one knee beside Ray and lays a hand just above Ray’s knee.  When Ray cuts a glance at him, Fraser’s eyes are saying something complicated, but _longing_ and _fear_ are coming through loud and clear, which means he basically looks just like he did the second before Ray kissed him for the first time, a year ago.

 

“You’re not dumb,” says Fraser, low and intense.  “The problem is entirely the reverse.  I’ve come to rely on your ability to know what I’m thinking without my saying it.  But this,” he gestures at the food on the counter, “There’s no way you could interpret my meaning, because I haven’t given you the context.  And in any case, it was worse than unfair for me to expect it of you.  Because I am not entirely stupid either, and what you asked me for last night was words.  Honest words.”

 

Ray nods.

 

“When my mother died,” says Fraser, “My father was devastated.  He. . .lost himself for a while.  I was six years old, I didn’t understand what was happening at the time, but I’ve come to understand in retrospect.  My father was lost, and then somehow, he found himself again.  Enough to take up his life again, anyway.  Enough to shave and put on his uniform and go back to work.  And to make breakfast for his son.”

 

Well, that explains about the banana, anyway.  But Ray’s not sure he likes the point of this story.  “So this _is_ about you taking care of me,” he says.

 

Fraser shakes his head.  “I do want to take care of you,” he says.  “Your wellbeing matters a great deal to me.  But that isn’t why I made you breakfast.”

 

“Okay. . .”

 

Fraser’s got both hands on Ray’s knee now.  “My father was a good Mountie, but rather an absent father,” he says.  “I—resented that absence for a long time.  In many ways, I hold my father up as an example to follow in my own life, but I’ve always told myself that in this area, I would do better, I wouldn’t make the same mistake he did.  But since I have no children, and the possibility of ever having any seems rather remote. . .well, it’s taken me a foolishly long time to realize that I have been repeating his mistakes, after all.”

 

His eyes drop to his hands, and it doesn’t take a fucking genius to interpret that. 

 

“And even longer to get up the courage to do something about it,” Fraser adds.

 

Fraser’s trying to give him the words he asked for, and Ray doesn’t want to interrupt that, but he wants Fraser to know that Ray’s hearing him.  So he lays one hand on top of Fraser’s and asks: “Are you afraid of losing me?  Is that what this is about?”

 

“No,” says Fraser.  “Well, yes, I suppose that’s true as well, but it’s not why I’ve been. . .behaving the way I have.”

 

“You’re not afraid of _me_?  You can’t be.”

 

“Not of you.  Of. . .myself.  Of losing myself in you.”

 

“Oh.”  It’s hard to imagine Fraser being anything other than rock-solid sure of who he is.  But if he really means it. . .  “I, uh, I know all about that.  Well, you know that, you saw how messed up I was, after Stella.” 

 

And Fraser’s eyes flick up to meet his, finally.  “I wasn’t sure,” he says.  “Until last night, I worried that you might. . .be repeating the past with me.  Or at least, that’s what I thought I was afraid of.  But then, last night—you said no.  You refused to let me. . .you refused to lose yourself in me."

 

“Yeah.  I can’t go down that road again.  Not even for you.”  It’s true, but it’s a lie, too, because Ray’s pretty sure that Fraser could make him change his mind if he tried; he more than half _wants_ Fraser to make him change his mind.

 

“I understand,” says Fraser, so fucking sadly that Ray can’t decide whether he wants to slug him or kiss him.

 

“Do you?” he asks.  “’Cause you really should, seeing as how it was you who helped me find myself again.  Learn how to trust myself.”

 

“Ray.”  Fraser squares his shoulders and takes a breath, looking Ray straight in the eyes.  “You’ve told me _No_ twice in the past six hours.  I’m in your apartment without your leave.  Do you want me to go, now?”

 

Put like that, Ray maybe should say _Yes,_ but it would be a lie.  “No,” he says.  “I want you to stay and finish telling me what you came here to tell me.  I want—“  _Oh, the hell with it._   “I want you to tell me how we’re gonna make this work out right.”

 

Fraser drops his head to rest his forehead against Ray’s knee.

 

“Why aren’t you afraid?” he asks after a while.  “How can you let me?  Know you.  Touch you.”

 

Ray shrugs and quirks a rueful half-smile.  “Don’t know.  Don’t know how not to.  Never did.”

 

“You don’t know how beautiful that makes you.”  Fraser reaches up and touches Ray’s cheek with tentative, trembling fingers.  “You don’t know how much I. . .I wish. . .”

 

Ray has to close his eyes.  “Aw, Fraser, don’t do that.  Not if you’re not gonna. . .”

 

The touch against his face vanishes instantly.  Ray waits for Fraser to take his other hand off Ray’s knee, get up, go.  But Fraser doesn’t move.

 

“Please,” he says, so soft Ray can barely hear him.  “I can’t swim.”  And then, softer still, “Show me?”

 

Ray reaches down to finger the neck of Fraser’s sweater, wishing it were as simple as grabbing him by the scruff of the neck and hauling him up into the air.

 

“Listen,” he says.  “You know I’d do anything, but I don’t—I can’t fix this for you.  We’ve been partners three years, plus. . .lovers, for one, and if you don’t trust me after all that—“

 

“I do trust you.  It’s myself I don’t trust.”

 

“Why not?  _I_ trust you.”

 

Fraser drops his eyes, licks his lips, and mumbles, “Precedent.”

 

“Well, fuck precedent,” says Ray.  Fraser blinks dumbly up at him, and Ray barrels forward, running on pure intuition now, because _shit_ , maybe he’s getting through, finally.  “You believe that criminals can go straight.  You’ve been telling me since we met that just because I’ve screwed up in the past don’t mean I can’t do better the next time around.  And you just said you think it’s a pretty neat trick that I’m managing to not make the same mistake with you that I made with Stella.  So, what: are you telling me you finally found a game you can’t beat me at?”

 

Fraser opens his mouth but can’t seem to find any words.  He looks like he just swallowed a goldfish by mistake—half frowning, half laughing, and too fucking startled to tip over into one or the other.  His expression is so comical that Ray has to fight to keep a straight face.

 

“Fraser,” he says, softly, like he’s talking to a frightened toddler who’s lost his mother in the park.  “You took a bunch of trouble to come back here and give me a symbolic banana.  You taking it back now, or do I get to keep it?”

 

Somehow that steadies Fraser: his chin comes up, his shoulders straighten and he looks straight up into Ray’s eyes. 

 

“The _last_ time I remember my father making me breakfast, I can’t have been more than seven years old,” he says.  “I mean to do better than that.”

 

He rises, takes the banana from the counter, and offers it to Ray, who looks from Fraser’s utterly solemn face to the banana lying across his open palm and cracks up laughing.  After a startled moment, Fraser starts laughing, too.

 

“Give it here,” gasps Ray, reaching for the banana.  But as he takes it, Fraser’s fingers close gently around his wrist.  Still smiling, he looks up at Fraser, whose laughter has faded back into a serious expression but whose eyes are bright as they hold Ray’s. 

 

“I love you,” he says.  “I know it doesn’t _solve_ anything, but it’s true, and you deserve to know it.  And it won’t change.”

 

Ray blinks against the sudden sting of tears.  “There now, world didn’t end, did it?”

 

“I sincerely hope not,” says Fraser, with a hint of his regular deadpan.  He takes a deep breath and says, “There’s a story I should tell you—that I need to tell you.  I should have told you long ago, but. . .”

 

“Is this one about bananas?” asks Ray, hoping to bring Fraser’s smile back.

 

“No.  It’s about precedent.  It’s also. . .probably a rather long story.”

 

Ray opens his mouth to tell Fraser they’ve got all the time in the world, but just then, his alarm clock shrills from the bedroom, making them both jump.

 

“Hell!”  Ray rushes to shut the thing up.  When he gets back to the living room, Fraser’s halfway to parade rest.

 

“Listen, don’t worry about the time,” Ray tells him.  “This is important.  I’ll take a sick day, I’ve got a pile saved up.  I won’t even have to lie.  I’ve got a family emergency, which is a perfectly legit reason to take a sick day.”

 

Fraser just stands there looking at him, blank-faced.  Ray has the urge to grab his shoulders and shake him and yell _What the hell did I do wrong this time?_   Just as strong is the urge to take Fraser in his arms and kiss him and promise to make it all better.  Neither is going to do any good here, though, so he bites them both down and tries to think.

 

“It’s just a sick day,” he says, as calmly as he can.  “It’s not like I’d be killing puppies or something.” 

 

Fraser nods silently.

 

“Look, I’m serious, if I had a kid and had to take him to the doctor or stay home ‘cause he was sick, I’d take a sick day and no one would blame me for it.  I know maybe your dad didn’t think that way,” _or, you know, pay any attention to you at all when you were growing up, the jerk,_   “But it’s honestly okay.  This is important.  You’re that important.”

 

“But I’m not sick,” says Fraser tonelessly.

 

Ray frowns.  “Well, no, and you’re not my kid, but you’re still. . .”  Fraser’s expression doesn’t change, but suddenly Ray gets it.  “Oh.  _You_ don’t want to take a sick day.  That it?”

 

Fraser closes his eyes.  “I can’t.”  His voice is barely audible.  “I’m sorry, Ray.”

 

And if Fraser were saying this with his usual brisk, sincere-but-not-budging-an-inch politeness, Ray would be pissed and sick at one more fucking piece of evidence about how little Fraser cares about him.  But Fraser looks like he’s just stepped in front of a firing squad.  Fraser, in fact, looks just like Ray felt last night when he told Fraser to go.

 

Ray puts his hand on Fraser’s arm.  Fraser flinches, eyes still closed.  He doesn’t pull away, but Ray can feel him trembling.

 

“This is like the banana, ain’t it?” Ray asks.

 

Fraser’s eyes snap open.  He nods, staring at Ray with an emotion intense enough to strip paint.  Ray thinks maybe it’s hope.

 

“Okay,” says Ray.  “It’s okay.  No sick day.  We’ll go to work, and I’ll pick you up after, and we’ll come back here, and we’ll order in food, and you’ll tell me your long story.  Deal?”

 

Fraser doesn’t smile, but every muscle in his body broadcasts relief.  He takes Ray’s hand from his arm, holds it between both of his own, and brushes it ever so gently with his lips. 

 

“And,” he says.

 

“And?”

 

“I’ll make you breakfast in the morning,” says Fraser.  “If you want me to.  If you—if you’ll let me stay.”

 

“Fraser.”  Ray’s heart is jumping like crazy but he forces himself to keep still.  “That’s like the banana, too, you know.”

 

“It’s more than that,” says Fraser quietly. 

 

Ray nods slowly.

 

“Okay,” he says.

 

He reaches over and pulls Fraser in for a kiss.  Nothing fancy, barely more than a brush of the lips, but suddenly he’s shaking inside, thinking of morning-off-to-work kisses and last-thing-before-falling-asleep kisses and standing-over-the-stove-just-because kisses.  And maybe he’s shaking a little on the outside, too, because Fraser pulls back, his hand on Ray’s chin, looking into his eyes.

 

“Pop-Tarts,” Ray blurts out.  “I want you to make me Pop-Tarts tomorrow.”

 

Fraser’s eyes crinkle at the corners and he gives Ray the look that means he’d call Ray a freak if only he weren’t too polite, and says, “If that’s what it takes.”

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from Joni MItchell's "Morning Morgentown" (only it turns out I've been mishearing/misremembering the lyric all this time. I like my version better. :) ). In my heart, the title of this story is "Symbolic Banana," but I didn't want the reader to spend the whole sex scene wondering what bananas have to do with anything. Titles: the bane of my existence. :)


End file.
